


Lean On

by Ealdwic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Relationship, dean/cas - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8614537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealdwic/pseuds/Ealdwic
Summary: Castiel is cursed by a witch on their latest hunt, and somehow goes from immense pain to being safe and comfortable in Dean's bed. I suck at summaries, whatever. Just read.
Based on the heart-wrenching fan art at the end of the story. Cannot for the life of me find the artist, but obviously it's copyright totally to them.





	

**Lean On**   
**x  
  
  
**

Castiel feels the ebb and slide of pain, radiating far up his spine, down every nerve, and it feels like a volcano has erupted across his back, a fire down every synapse. His nerves are shot, the entirety of his form - lithe and shaking under the stale blankets piled over his prone body - screaming out for relief in the dark. He thinks he well and truly has a larger grasp of what it feels like to die, to really fall, and to land, face-first, tripping, bleeding and crying out. He feels like a helpless creature writhing in the mud, but no - he remembers, it's just the blankets, wrapping tight around him as he rolls and tosses, trying to gain some semblance of being comfortable on the cot, but every movement just causes him to release staccato gasps, seething noises tumbling out between his teeth as the pain rises and overtakes him, over and over.

It's embarrassing, and horrifying, being so weak, falling apart, and through everything he has ever experienced and gone through in this vessel, Jimmy's body that has now long since been his body, he wishes that they'd just torn his wings out entirely. Instead, the witches that he and the Winchesters had encountered a week ago had placed an irreversible curse upon him as a last resort before Dean had taken the head witch down, ending her, but not before she'd thrown something energetically massive past Dean's shoulder as she fell, an energy tangibly dark and malevolent at Castiel, a sweet smile dying with her.

  
Since then, the three of them had tried desperately to reverse it, but they didn't have a lead that had brought the curse to a resolution. Much to Sam and Dean's dismay, Castiel increasingly grew sicker, the angel finally admitting that the source was coming from where his wings were, nestled into the unfathomable realm where he had them stowed away within. He didn't divulge much more, because he simply had never experienced this sort of torture or fall-out, and truly, he did not know himself what was occurring.

His grace is now leaking from every pore, though obviously not visible on this plane, but it's all he feels, all he knows, all he breathes or not breathes as he tries to stifle every noise and sound coming from him. The whole room is darkness, and he's thankful for nightfall because opening his eyes against the onslaught of this barraging, rolling migraine and seeing any sort of light would probably tip him over the edge.

  
He wants to cry, sob and throw up, all at once, but he resolves not to wake the other two occupants of the bunker. He's been sleeping in the library, never far from any of the thick volumes of ancient texts they had been trying to sift through for any sort of information, any help they may hold for them, because he has grown too exhausted and weak to return to his own room.

Dean agreed to it, for Castiel to move there for nightfall, but it was due to a lot of convincing, and he couldn't really deny Castiel's logic. Even so, sometimes Castiel finds that the hunter passes out on the couch, feet away from the cot Castiel occupies, sometimes all night.

  
This is one of those nights, and for the angel, the worst night to date in terms of his affliction. He feels beads of sweat banding on his forehead, pooling in his lower back and down his shoulder blades, his whole body's temperature running hot, hotter than humans should ever be, and he tries to shuck his shirt off with difficulty, but just cannot muster the strength to twist and pull it off. He lays limply, belly down, trying to get a handle on his pain, but he has to moan miserably when his upper back spasms and his wings lock up and flutter in debilitating dismay in the other plane. It is agony, sheer effort placed upon hardly any effort to spare, to keep them hidden in the realm, and he needs to manifest them, though he is fearful of what is required for this level of control.

In order to bring them earth side, they will need to be controlled, feathers and bone and sinew and muscle, and not the true, glorious and illuminating, blinding light they are in God's kingdom. To bring them to light as they truly are would fill the bunker with an overwhelming surge of power and brilliancy that could obliterate the entirety of the Men of Letters' hideaway the moment they manifested. No, they would need to be fathomable, safely discernible by a human eye, shaped into a smaller and overall legible version so that the Winchesters could see them without their eyes and heads exploding.

  
Castiel takes twenty minutes or so to do this; the pain is unmistakable, raw, and he groans through it, the last, guttural noise ending clipped in a tone of relief. It hurts, immensely, and it is wholly and entirely exhausting, to manifest them at all, to forcibly will them into this version and shape, but he could not use any more of his reserves to store them elsewhere and keep them folded as they quivered and trembled.

  
They are awkward, inky shapes that dust the library floor, and surprisingly loud in the silence as they unfurl and stretch, each crackle of bone sending the same pain throbbing down the hollow appendages. He buries his head in his arms, folded together above his chin, and he finally gives in and does weep. It's quiet, so stilted, as though the act itself is despicable and too much to handle. He doesn't know how long he cries, but the tears get sticky and warm where his chest is pressed against the cot's mattress. It is displaced every now and then with hiccups of terrible pain, his jaw quivering from the release.

  
His face is wet and his eyes and mouth swollen when he jerks his head up suddenly, his sobs catching as he hears and sees Dean's body slowly move to sit up on the sofa, the shape of him a sudden black blob in the dark space.

  
Castiel does not know why but he hastily hides his face, burrows into his crossed arms, holding his breath, trying to look for all the world like he has simply been asleep. He is so entirely aware that his trench coat's tattered back currently houses two large, black-to-blue-toned angelic wings, loosely sagging down around him on either side, but he keeps them still, wincing at the discomfort it brings to hold their movement hostage or try to reign them back in. He feels as though his movements and weak noises brought Dean out and up from his rare slumber, and his throat closes a little around his shame. He remains intent on trying not to alert the other that he is aware of him.

  
Castiel tries to stop the thumping of his heart-rate as he hears and imagines Dean sliding his feet out from where they were curled in sleep, standing and popping tight neck and arm joints, stagnant too long. Dean stands, sniffling almost silently, waking noises Castiel knows well now, and he stands and strides towards what is likely the library exit, but then he stops short, a surprised noise pulling from him the same time as the angel twitches in shock.

  
Castiel has barely enough energy but he tries anyway to tug his wing in afterward, but Dean's toes have already accidentally connected with the primary feathers. Castiel's wing all but trembles but he cannot muster the gusto to tuck them out of Dean's way, or merely move it, and it is too late to hide them.

  
" **Whoa**!"

  
He hears Dean say it like a question, gruff from sleep but definitely waking up incredibly quickly. He stands stock still, likely his eyes adjusting to the room and to make sense of what his foot had kicked, and Castiel both knows and physically feels the moment Dean sees him, registers his entire body, his position. His wings.

  
"Uh, Cas? Hey?"

  
Dean sounds nonplussed, curious, worried, and Castiel wishes he could pretend longer but he'll have to say something, or Dean will just come closer, probably try to gently shake him awake.

  
"Yes. I'm up." He clears his throat, trying to dislodge the tears and pain from his tone, but he's not entirely sure it works.

  
He starts to apologize, not wholly sure of what or which part, but Dean beats him to the punch.

  
"Did I just trip on a - on your _wing_?"

  
Castiel thinks he hears Dean scratching his leg, but he's decidedly quiet, speaking softly for even him. There's a small swell of excited nervousness, maybe even amazement, he hears in Dean's voice, and it heightens his awareness, his anxiety, blanketing the thundering headache for a moment.

  
"I... Yes." Castiel clears his throat, still buried in his arms, avoiding eye contact.

  
"I am not able to contain them right now. It is too much for me to do so."

  
"Worse or really worse?"

  
The question catches him quite off guard, as does the somber, concerned way Dean says it, sounding all too helpless and frustrated.

  
"It's..."

  
Castiel cannot recruit the proper words he needs to describe this, and he trails off, at a loss. He is desolate, and he feels hot tears pricking at the corners of his dry eyes, and he squeezes them shut, willing his body to stop being so weak, so uncontrollably human. He bites his lip, then, choking on a soft groan, the noise all but attempting to bound out his body without any warning. He feels a fever spread through his wings, to his torso, the feathers practically afire with the traumatic curse. He is lost in a slew of human emotions and wavering physical ailment, a battle of tearing, gnawing peril climbing through his rib-cage.

  
Dean must hear something in the way he speaks, because the next moment Castiel takes in a breath, he is there, kneeling down to squat before Castiel's head. He cannot see Castiel's face, but he brackets his elbows with calloused, sleep-warm hands, a ghost of a touch that is not sure if it should be there, if it is appropriate. Regardless, even minute as it is, Dean's palm continues until it threads through Castiel's sweat-soaked hair, the strands dragging back with Dean's direction, his fingers trailing down, behind the angel's ears, coming to drag and hover gently at the back of his neck. Dean remains there, maybe for a span of five minutes, before he is suddenly pulling away, standing to walk a few feet before he turns towards Castiel.

  
"Be right back. Don't move."

  
Castiel hates the way his grace dims and his vessel all but wilts when Dean's hand is removed, and he sighs, though it turns into a snort as Dean speaks and leaves the room for whatever he needs to do. As if he could move or follow if he so desired. The comment normally would irk him, challenge him into following the hunter regardless, but this time, he is physically inept and unable to so much as chase Dean with his eyes. It is too difficult for him to muster any single strands of energy now, and he lays there, alone in the silence, the smell of ink and paper and his own fear swirling together as he drifts. He thinks that he can hear Dean tip toeing about somewhere in the bunker in the back of his mind, but it may just be his head, thumping in perfect succession to the sluggish pulse of his wrists.

  
It takes Castiel quite a few moments before he realizes that Dean is shaking him by the shoulder, none too gently, and he snaps to, subconscious and conscience tugged together in shocking seconds that render him terrified and confused. His body jerks, like it has been astral projecting and only just returned to the world, and he manages to reel back enough on the cot to find dark, hazel-green eyes boring into his.

  
"Ow... Hurts."

  
He's talking about the rough awakening, but Dean just stares at him, worry and panic stuck in his features. Castiel wonders why, until he realizes that Dean may have been trying to wake him up for a handful of minutes and Castiel had not responded easily, explaining Dean's rough approach.

  
"Cass, what's going on? I've been shaking you for damn near ten minutes!"

  
There is an undeniable amount of terror in Dean's voice, terror and something else, something hysteric, and Castiel at once wishes to dispel it, to lay comfort over top the strong sense of concern.

  
"I do not know. Only... Dean, I feel that I may be dying, the pain is so great."

  
Castiel almost wishes he had not been so straightforward, unable to miss the large wince and the effect this has on the other, but he has no reserves left to deal with it, to quell the pain, and he cannot for the life of him see another way than being honest. He is afraid, locked in limbo, no more privy to what is befalling him than either Dean or Sam, and so, if this is death, he feels he owes the last hours to truth and no more pretenses.

  
"Can you stand?"

  
It's Dean's way of avoiding the tumble of words that struck him, and Dean coughs roughly, dislodging doubt.

  
"I... cannot. I don't think -"

  
"S'ok."

  
Before he has any chance to protest or question what happens next, Dean is reaching for his shoulders, clutching him and helping him to a sitting position. Castiel comes to his hands and knees first, his newly physical feathers dragging up along the cot, his wingspan still spread and dangling sadly. He finally manages to sit with his legs hanging over the mattress' edge on one side, with Dean's assistance. His sore body pitches once, to the left, unbidden, but Dean rights him, his hands surprisingly careful. The whole movement still elicits an unplanned moan of discomfort from Castiel, and he finds he does not have any remaining ability whatsoever to stop his body from quaking under the strain of moving, and his head falls forward, finding that Dean's chest is there to stop it from craning too far downward. His eyes squeeze shut and the breath is knocked from his lungs as new nausea roils through his guts. He tries to sit straight, afraid he will upturn the contents of his stomach onto Dean's front. As much as his help is so welcome, Castiel doesn't think he can forgive himself for being a hindrance to that degree.

  
"Whoa, there. Stop. Just a sec."

  
Castiel listens, and Dean hooks his arms underneath his armpits, and then with some strain, though much less effort than he would have imagined, the hunter is lifting him, pulling him in close, his legs automatically coming to a stand. They immediately give way, unable to support his own weight, but it's like Dean has predicted this and soon he finds he is elevated from the ground, Dean's arms cradled wide beneath Castiel's long legs, and he is closely nestled against Dean, his arms wrapping round the man to clutch at his back from Dean's sides, assisting weakly with the way Dean is suddenly carrying him. Castiel's head lolls until it is draped over one of Dean's shoulders, and he inhales sharply, the position rough on his body but also unexpected in a way that makes him feel so intensely comforted. He is suspended in the air, just as he feels otherworldly and suspended above their feet, and his wings struggle for a moment to fold up to make their balance less awkward, but they twitch, still so cumbersome, and only manage to close halfway. It is enough, he hopes.

  
"What are you doing?"

  
Castiel mumbles it, hushed tones against the crook of Dean's neck, and he sounds so lost, so hopeful, that it all but kills Dean inside.

Dean just stays silent for the time, either from his own inner dialogue, or more likely, the concentration it takes to lug them both up a flight of stairs and down the long enough hallway that Castiel recognizes as Dean and Sam's rooms. He walks down the hall still carrying Castiel, the sway of them silent, drifting down towards Dean's supposed destination. All the while, there is a hum in Castiel's head, his headache coming to a pinpoint of pain and lightning behind his eyelids, but there is also a sense of need, something making him tighten his arms just fractionally, his breath finding even rhythm.

  
It takes time but not long before Dean sticks his foot in the door that's minutely ajar, using the toe of his boot to kick the door open enough so he can get his shoulder against it and widens it so that neither their bodies nor any part of Castiel's wings get stuck on it.

Dean pauses a moment, surveying his room, seeming to calculate something, but he continues until his shins are flush with the bed pushed up beside the large window in the room, and he stops then, his arms unknowingly tightening a fraction on the angel's legs before he speaks again.

  
"I'm gonna put you down here. Ready?"

  
The angel nods, but foregoes words, somehow feeling as though the short journey through the bunker and to this place has taken his ability to utter physical words.

  
Dean unfurls his hands first, then his arms, slowly, in time with Castiel's removal of his own hands from where they had clasped together lightly behind Dean's broad shoulder blades. He sinks onto the bed, the comforter soft beneath him, the place where Dean's arms had held him, under his legs, growing cold.

  
He thinks to ask Dean what to do now, since this is the hunter's quarters and not his, but he waits, noticing Dean circles the bed and sweeps a stack of books, his phone, and a few pieces of scribbled on notepad sheets off the far side of the mattress with his forearm, and then he's actually tugging the bedspread down, until it stops where Castiel's form sits, prone and hunched, the angel still very much in the throes of whatever violent pain the curse has been wreaking on him. He looks wrecked, Dean thinks, devoid of any ability to manage this, and he nods, once, to himself, something about his choices clicking into place.

  
To Castiel, Dean looks entirely at ease, even though this is new for either of them, all of it entirely, and the nervous bubble below Castiel's ribs eases a little. Somehow he knows this isn't the time to question or speculate, and that something bigger is transpiring here. He takes it within stride, accepting of it, welcoming, even.

  
"Scoot down, and slide under, if you can."

  
Castiel does as he is told, in no mood to feel any sort of ire or prideful flare of protest at being basically told what to do. He knows that it is not meant to control him, or be an egotistical clash of any sort, and that Dean has a plan to help him and he willingly - would entirely trust him with this as is - turns to move until he can edge himself up over the covers as Dean pulls and spreads the blanket down at the foot of the bed. The angel tries to lay down, but his coat hinders him, the lapels twisted and askew from being jostled more than usual, and his wings are so awkward and encompassing, barely leaving any room on the bed for either of the two of them.

He looks to Dean, his shoulders tensing, and Dean has to laugh at that, a small burst of amusement at the look of utter frustration on Castiel's face.

  
"Dude, just take it off."

  
The angel bridles a little, knowing he can't use his grace to just dissipate the offending article of clothing, but he feels too aware of his pain and does not want to reveal to Dean the acuteness of his condition. Instead, he wrestles it off him, the coat getting unsurprisingly caught on the feathers that tore through the trench to allow his wings to spread free. Dimly, he realizes that the sound of his clothing tearing in the night was the source of what had first woke Dean and alerted him to Castiel's movement. He had been to entirely wrapped up in the flux and flow of his pain at the time to hear when his wings had physically ripped through the coat.

  
"Okay, wait, wait."

  
Dean grabs a pair of black scissors from the desk, and he cuts, three or four times, on either side of Castiel's back, opens up the holes around Castiel's wings and ends up with a tattered trench coat in his hands, pulling off what remains of the offending material. He has the decency to look regretful, and apologetic.

  
"Sorry. We'll get you knew stuff to wear. We'll just have to do some fancy work on your shirts if those are stickin' around."

  
Dean points to the wings, but he stills himself too, unable to stop himself from lingering on them. Though they hang and seem less than capable of much, they are beyond anything he's seen, shocking to him, a sight he'd never imagined past the charcoal echoes of their existence that Dean had seen moments and flickers throughout their history. He seems totally captured by their reality, and Castiel ducks his head, aware of their less than grand current appearance. They feel shriveled and limp from the torture of the curse, and the look as sickly as he feels.

  
Dean reaches out, seeming to be drawn to their appearance and hesitates, but it is Castiel who overcomes his own sense of current humility, allowing one of his flight feathers to be grazed by Dean's fingers. The touch lingers a while, Dean ever so careful with the tips of his wings, but he stays, sitting half-on his bed, his eyes cast downward in concentration. Finally, he withdraws, only just to stand a moment while he comes to some slow decision about his own state of dress. Dean's shucking his boots, toeing them off, and he sheds his pants and shirt, and Castiel does not read into the moment, mostly due to the fact that now is not the time to stare, and he is still careening with the feeling of a bone-deep soreness and shaky pain that he cannot ignore.

Dean slides down on his side of the bed, but stays propped up on an elbow, studying Castiel.

  
"You gonna lay down?"

  
Castiel realizes dimly that he is still sitting there, and he looks down at himself, wearily trying to decide how to get comfortable, now that his wings have a need to be positioned too. He huffs, trying to lower himself down, and he shifts about until he comes to rest on his side, the angel's arms and legs curling fetal, inward til they're not jumping from the sharp sting of the curse, and finally, his form facing Dean's.

  
Dean watches him struggle to get situated, and he sits up and comes near Castiel's front before he's leaning over, his hands drawing the closest wing down and in, effectively folding the appendage so it can drape somewhat over the side of the bed farthest from him. Castiel wiggles the other wing to mimic this, and something warm blooms in him, appreciation and surprise that Dean feels like helping him get settled. It feels affectionate, really, but he tamps down on a desire to question this motive, because the hunter's also not one to discuss his choices, especially if Castiel thinks they're driven by a sense of emotional investment. He does not want to scare Dean from the bed, or end up making the other feel awkward, so he stills, just happy to be. The pain shrinks now that he is warmer, and his body can truly rest, something about the small distance between them desirably familial.

  
"Good?"

  
It's Dean who speaks first, as he rolls over onto his back, but his face turns to address the angel, his body language speaking volumes about his own sense of the comfort, about the angel being in his room, atop his sheets. There is a softness to his voice that Castiel only hears maybe once or twice in a blue moon, usually when something has gone amiss and he is talking with Sam or Bobby about things, but Castiel feels a warmth descending, bolstered a little by the fact that there's no one else here for it to be bestowed on besides him.

  
"Yes. I'm sorry for the trouble."

  
Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he never loses that edge of concern or depth to his tone.

  
"If you're gonna die, it's gonna be where I can see you, because it's not happening anyway. Not on my watch."

  
Castiel can tell that Dean is somewhat lost in his thoughts, and just a fraction shier about all this than he was when he'd carried the other to his room, but the righteous and stubborn quality of his admonition encourages Castiel to smile, just a little, the shaking of his body slowly ebbing away as Dean, as if an afterthought, finally draws the covers up to Castiel's chest and leaves his half of the blankets to lay across his ribs. His wings do not allow the blanket to entirely cover his body but it's fine like that, because it is suddenly so much warmer and before he can assess it, the heat and the security of the quiet space draws a large yawn from him.

  
"Get some sleep," Dean says, yawning himself, apparently drained as well.

  
"I don't need sleep."

  
Dean makes a funny little noise, apparently very amused at Castiel's efforts to sound convincing, to himself and to the hunter.

  
"Yeah, I'm sure." He rolls onto his side, a copycat pose to the angel's, and rubs a palm over his tired eyes.

  
"Just try. We'll deal with this in the morning. I'm here if anything gets big and bad again. Just get some rest, Cas."

  
It's been a handful of days in a row since Dean's called him this, and something about it breaks down his walls further, letting his whole body release all of his tension, boneless and overcome with the exhausting sense of needing to close his eyes. He loses his personal war against the sleepy quality of humanity's recharge, but before he closes his eyes, something important cannot wait. He needs to convince his cumbersome body and his tongue to form around the words. He does not entirely understand why it is so important, but he does feel the need rising, so he attempts a whisper, dismayed that his voice is just too harrowed to sound normal.

  
"Thank you..."

  
Dean's body sort of goes still, his face tight but not in derision, and he looks taken aback, or maybe he just did not expect Castiel to say something more. Whatever it is, it is quickly replaced with a genuine grin, no teeth but that slight unequal smirk that the hunter gets when he's amused, ready to consume something delicious, or just plain at total ease and in a decidedly happy mood. The lines of his face cease to remain pulled with worry, and they're laced with something gentler, but Castiel's beyond deciphering any blurring lines tonight.

  
Dean, however, does not say more. He settles in, his arm underneath him, crooked around his head. Lastly, Dean lets his arm extend towards him, like a silent specter in the dry, hot air of the room, a motion captured by the only natural light filtering in from the single window where the moon is a waning, fog-laden crescent. His hand stops just short of Castiel's arm, resting there in the space between them, his fingers splayed, relaxed there against the grey sheets rumpled by their movement.

  
It's in the quiet, reverent silence of the next twenty minutes when Dean's breathing drops off to a deep, slow rhythm, and the fuzzy cushion of timeless, consoling stillness of the room blankets him, and he forgets that angels do not require sleep as something weightless but certain overtakes his prone, tired body, flooding into his mind, and he feels his consciousness expand out, feeling his subconscious lay it dormant, and his eyes slip close.

  
Before he is entirely lost to the sensation of sleep, sure and certain as it engulfs him, he nudges his hand out from where it is wrapped along his own head, and joins his fingers with Dean's, ever so minutely, only two out of five of his fingers making contact. He thinks he hears a small sound from across the four feet between the largest distance their bodies are separated by, but he cannot open his eyes to check, and he feels his own breath and heart-rate drop, evening out, coming into the same pattern as Dean's. Whatever he has undergone, and whatever is to come, he knows for sure one thing:

  
Dean will take care of this, as much as he says so, and he will find his way through the inferno that seems to have attempted to set his grace and his life afire. He feels it tug at him, trying to overcome, but the source of warmth radiating from off of the hunter's fingertips and into his own - reaching to keep him afloat - endlessly silences its attempts, and nullified his distress.

  
Come morning, the situation may turn on them and again be very different and the absolution may falter, depending on what does come, but he is safe here, held willingly by this moment, and if he were to die tonight, underneath the warmth and the calm, he thinks that he could be entirely alright with that. He wants to steal one more glance over at Dean's supine, sprawled form, a confirmation and an unending source of his own personal affirmation, but the drag of a much needed, uninterrupted and pain-free sleep has already taken him.

 

**______**

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously hate this ending. I never know when to leave off, and how. It's one part my inability to ever finish a story in one sitting, and one part sheer lack of experience. LOL. WHATEVER.
> 
> Un-beta'd, as usual, and honestly, I'm starting to really friggin' enjoy writing these two. I feel like Dean slips through here and there, but I tried to remain steadfast in capturing more of Castiel's general perspective! Agh. I tried. Based on the lovely fan art linked below, thanks to some awesome soul on FB who shared it in a Destiel group. I HAD TO. I cannot help it. It's always gotta be the super beautiful art that makes me go nuts and fic it.
> 
> http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/ealdwic/71005206/716/716_original.jpg


End file.
